Sarah Morgan - One Night in Buenos Aires - The Vásquez Mistress

‘I don’t know. I was so in love with you.’ Her voice was thick with tears. ‘I didn’t think anything could ever damage what we had. I thought we were invincible.’

‘And presumably that’s why you did it.’ His voice grew several degrees colder and she knew that she would never convince him that she hadn’t become pregnant on purpose.

‘So just divorce me,’ she whispered, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Divorce me for unreasonable behaviour.’

‘There won’t be a divorce.’ His tone was hard and icy cold. ‘You chose this path, cariño . Now walk it. I have some calls to make. Make sure you rest before dinner.’

WHAT was she supposed to wear for dinner?

She’d fled from Argentina with nothing more than her passport. She certainly hadn’t stopped to pack a wardrobe.

Glancing at her watch, she realised that there were still several hours until dinner, so she picked up her bag and stepped into the elevator.

They were in the centre of Buenos Aires. How hard could it be to find something simple and practical to wear?

She pressed the button for the ground floor, thinking of Raul. He’d changed so much and she didn’t have to look far to discover the cause of their problems.

By becoming pregnant she’d committed the ultimate sin.

The lift doors opened and she gave a gasp of shock because Raul was standing there, anger shimmering in his dark eyes.

‘Do you have a death wish? You are supposed to be resting.’

For a long, agonising moment the tension throbbed between them momentarily blinding both of them. She was painfully aware of his sexuality and her stomach swooped and spun like a ride at a funfair.

Suddenly, looking at his rigid shoulders, she realised that they’d never stood a chance.

They were worlds apart; not just in terms of wealth, but in life experience and culture.

They’d talked all the time, but never about his past, and she was only now realising how little she knew about him.

The phone in his pocket rang and he removed it, scanned the number and then took the call. ‘Sí —I am aware of that.’ He switched between Spanish and English with effortless ease and Faith listened with reluctant admiration, trying not to be impressed but failing because his razor-sharp intellect had always given her a buzz. She’d loved arguing with him because his brain was so fast and challenging him had always resulted in lively debate.

As if sensing her scrutiny, his eyes locked onto hers and a muscle flickered in his jaw. ‘No—cancel. I don’t care, I’m busy right now. They can wait until I’m ready.’

Faith watched as he broke the connection with a decisive stab of one long finger and dropped the phone back into his pocket. She cleared her throat. ‘If you were cancelling a meeting because of me then you shouldn’t have bothered.’

‘How else am I supposed to stop you from doing something foolish? If I don’t watch you personally you will no doubt vanish again, and I have no desire to scrape you off the floor after yet another accident.’ He’d obviously come from a meeting because he was dressed in a dark formal suit but the white cuff of his shirt had ridden up slightly and she found her eyes drawn to the hairs that darkened the bronzed skin at his wrist. That tantalising hint of masculinity was sufficient to trigger an uncomfortably vivid image of him naked and Faith turned her head away quickly, wondering how a physical connection could possibly endure when everything else was so catastrophically wrong between them. It was true that Raul exceeded the most exacting woman’s standards of masculinity, but after everything that had happened, she shouldn’t be feeling this way .

The brain was supposed to be connected to the senses, so why were hers humming and buzzing instead of freezing him off?

Glancing over his shoulder, Faith saw two burly men standing in the opulent lobby. ‘Who are they?’

‘Security.’ Raul stepped into the elevator with her and slammed his hand against a button. He controlled his privacy with the same ruthless efficiency that he used on every other aspect of his life.

‘I need to go shopping—’

‘You were never interested in shopping.’

‘I don’t have anything to wear. All my clothes are at the estancia.’

He stared down at her for a moment. ‘I apologise,’ he said stiffly. ‘I hadn’t realised. You should have said something sooner.’

The doors slid closed and Faith suddenly found herself trapped with him in a small, intimate space.

Erotic images swirled around her brain and she stared straight ahead, trying to concentrate on something else. The utter stillness of his powerful body told her that he was doing the same thing and she knew instinctively that his brain was playing the same tricks.

So how could not looking intensify the connection between them?

In this closed-in space Faith was agonisingly aware of the latent power of his lean, strong body and she realised with a stab of pain that this was the first time she’d stood this close to him and not touched. In their relationship she’d been the affectionate one and he’d always teased her about it.

‘You can’t go five seconds without checking I’m still here.’

And it had been true. She’d adored him and it wouldn’t have occurred to her to not show it.

But now she envied his emotional detachment and wished she’d kept part of herself back.

If she’d done that, would it hurt less?

Probably not. Despite everything that had happened between them, part of her wanted to take that final step towards him and feel his arms close around her in that decisive, possessive way that had always thrilled her.

And it horrified her that she still felt that way.

She couldn’t be with a man who didn’t trust her, could she? For her, trust was as fundamental as breathing. And she couldn’t be with a man who had such little regard for her feelings. A man who knew her so little .

Did she have no self-respect?

Or was it just that she’d totally underestimated the power of love?

Desperate to interrupt the uncomfortable flow of her thoughts, Faith struggled to make conversation. ‘I didn’t know you had an apartment in Buenos Aires.’

He loosened his top button and jerked at his tie, the intimate confinement clearly affecting him in a similar manner. ‘Sometimes I work late.’

The lift rose smoothly upwards and she stared at the view.

‘It’s stunning.’

‘Actually it’s on the market,’ Raul said stiffly. ‘I’ve discovered that a glass lift isn’t a good choice if you want privacy.’

And Raul was fiercely protective of his privacy, she knew that. This particular billionaire wasn’t about to become public property, and he invested time and effort into keeping his profile as low-key as possible. His extreme wealth had protected their relationship from the intrusion of the outside world.

She’d been spoiled, cosseted, protected and most of the time she hadn’t even been aware of that fact because everything in his life ran so smoothly and discreetly.

His main residence was the Beach House in the grounds of the estancia , ten thousand acres of prime real-estate that stretched from the Atlantic coast of Argentina into the grasslands. Under Raul’s watchful eye, his dedicated staff, which had once included her, bred and trained polo ponies, and the estancia was the first port of call for the super-wealthy who enjoyed that particular sport.

With typical flare and vision, Raul had tapped into a market where the very, very rich would pay for the privilege of receiving the very best polo instruction and advice on the purchase of a string of ponies, safe from the prying eyes of the world’s press. It also allowed Raul to indulge his daredevil streak—as one of the country’s most daring polo players, he thrived on the thrilling adrenalin rush of the game.